


Domestic Civility

by windandthestars



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In fact, he thinks it may have made things worse because now MacKenzie's in his kitchen and she doesn't look half as sorry as she should for calling and cancelling half his dinner order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic Civility

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for season 1.

He's having a thing at his apartment. Some people would call it a dinner party, but a couple of college buddies getting together to commiserate about getting older is hardly that formal. Their things is usually more of a pizza and beer event and he's fine with that; even if his GP would have a heart attack knowing the five of them could happily put away a couple of pizzas and a few dozen wings. It's one night where they can talk about football and forget about their nine to fives and the stuffy dinner parties they have to attend every other day of the week.

Their thing isn't a dinner party, but this time around that’s a useless distinction because the wives have been invited. He’s not sure who invited them, but it’s the three of them to the five guys and Mac who, as usual, has invited herself. After the mess with Leona, the tabloid stories, and the Casey Anthony kerfuffle, he's not allowed to do anything on his own outside the office. It’s his life and while he’s not sure who decided it isn’t, Mac’s all too fond of reminding him, he's shown a shocking lack of judgment in his personal life. That’s not something he agrees with, at least not entirely, but as long as they’re both committed to News Night, both setting out to civilize the world between the hours of eight and nine, she's spending the rest of her time trying to civilize him. At least that's what he figures, because she won’t admitted to anything. If he can be bothered asking, in a way that doesn’t send her stomping out of his office, she gives him a coy little smile and saunters off with an air that suggests she knows just how intently he's watching her.

It's not that he minds having Mac around, except for when he does, it's more the idea that she expects him to share her standards that bugs him. They may have left the days of eating reheated Thai food in bed behind, but that doesn't mean he's required to cook for his guests. It's not that he dislikes cooking, he just doesn't have time for it now that the job has him seeing more of his office than his apartment. 

He's planning on buying a lot of food, good food, but Mac's still harping on him about proper etiquette. Dinner parties meant table settings with dessert spoons and at least three courses, with food fresh from the oven. He's not buying any of the BS she's trying to feed him, but he's not really arguing with her either. He likes watching her wind herself up when he’s not directly involved so he lets her nag him all week.

In the end, they both know she won’t win the argument, but he enjoys making sure she hasn’t forgotten there still might be a chance. He orders the food on Friday after the rundown meeting while she grouses at him from across his desk: don't forget the endive, make sure they left the chocolate sauce on the side so they could reheat the desserts, didn't he know root vegetables were out of season. 

She knows the discussion is over, but she keeps snipping anyway; she almost makes him laugh on air, whining about his lack of respect for social conventions. He chews her out a bit in front of the staff for that, nothing serious, just a bit of banter at an unreasonable volume and a few stern looks. She doesn’t seemed bothered by it. In fact, he thinks it may have made things worse because now MacKenzie's in his kitchen and she doesn't look half as sorry as she should for calling and cancelling half his dinner order.

"Oh Billy," she swats at his arm, dismissing his grumbling with her eyes wide, playing at innocent. He knows it's too late to do anything about it now. AWM may pay him well but money only buys so much. His wallet may have greased the table and gotten him the food in the first place, but it didn't leave him much room to go jerking people around. "It's only the desserts," she smiles and he wonders if maybe she hasn't gone and lost it: there are two bags of salad fixings sitting in his fridge and another bag of cartons and boxes for something he has yet to identify.

Mac doesn't cook much, mostly because she’s a walking disaster in the kitchen, and he wonders if maybe he should point that out. He doesn't mind her messing with his menu, his friends would have found something else to rib him about, but he doesn’t like that he's going to have to fix it. She's gotten into his head and now he can't stand the thought of the evening ending without a proper dessert. The salad she can manage on her own, but he sure as hell hopes she has a contingency plan to deal with dessert. She can't go and cancel an order for the world's most decadent chocolate cake and then leave him hanging.

"Oh but I have it all taken care of," she assures him when he voices his concern with a frown that makes the corners of her lips quirk up. "I'm baking you a pie."

A pie is not the same thing as the world's best cake but she's not listening as he tries to explain, so eventually he gives up and settles down on a barstool behind the counter, under the premise of staying out of her way while simultaneously ensuring she doesn't burn the whole building down.

She's not impressed by his lack of confidence in her if her dry little laugh is any indication, but he's not about to tell her that he's really secretly pleased she's wormed her way into his kitchen. He's not entirely sure he wants to admit that to himself, let alone let her know how much she still gets to him sometimes, but he's not above enjoying himself anyway. If there's one thing more endearing and entertaining than watching MacKenzie McHale try and open a jar of pasta sauce, it's watching her try and cook anything with more than five ingredients or two dozen steps.

She's dressed in work clothes, or more accurately he assumes the clothes she's intending to wear to dinner than night, a deep sea green silk blouse and a tight black skirt. She's worried about ruining the blouse, he can tell by the way she gives a little hop back from the counter every time something seems to spatter, but the skirt must be a knock off because she keeps unconsciously wiping her hands on it.

He would offer her an apron, but he knows she won't take it, just like he knows she won't let him wipe the streak of berry juice off her forehead or smooth away the wisps of hair that keep falling into her eyes. She's concentrating and his proximity would only disturb that. He would distract her, smooth away the furrows between her eyes and the frown on her face.

Will's seen her like this at work, intent and focused, but some how, here in his kitchen, it's different: softer and more personal. She seems almost as vulnerable and unsure as she is determined. The dichotomy tugs at his heart, making him want to wrap his arms around her and cover her hands in his own. He wants to smooth out the pie dough, sculpt it with her fingers, feeling it grow sticky with their combined heat. He wants to slip the dough into the freezer for a moment, just a moment, and rest his check against hers so he can hear her breathe.

He wants to know that she's here, really here. He wants a million other things, but mostly he wants to remember what it feels like to have her in his arms, to remember what it feels like to be the one to make her laugh, and to know his heart will stop breaking every time she leaves the room, but mostly he just wants her here like this, laughing to herself as flour spills out across his counter and onto the floor, dusting the room in a light sheen of white. He wants to watch as she hops about fanning his screeching smoke detector until he takes pity on her and reaches up to pull out the batteries. He wants to watch that tired contented smile creep across her face when she pulls the pie, miraculously unsigned, from the oven. 

Mostly he just wants her here so he can be reminded for a moment of what he had lost and know that she's remembering too, because as much as he wants her here, he doesn't, and he wants her to know that too.


End file.
